Bayou Betty’s: Devils Point, #1

By Shaunna Rodriguez

Devils Point natives, Buck & Sandra Eschete are missing.... 

The gentle sway of willow trees and cattails camouflage predators and gators. The marshy canals are a haven for body dumps. The slick green slime of swamp moss covers the surface. The black water with depths unknown, conceals the body until it's decomposed and ripe for the taking never to be seen alive again.... 

Out in the wetlands, down deep in the swamp, what are chances you'll find a body, much less two? 

The search for Buck and Sandra is underway in the dangerous swamps of Louisiana. If the July heat doesn't kill the volunteers, the gators are sure to.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Coffee & Cakes Publishing
• Release date: Nov 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393504399

Book preview

Prologue

Thomas Yields, Tom to his friends, was a nobody. Until he woke to the sound of croaking bullfrogs and chirping crickets and was covered in blood. Tom sat up with a moan and pressed the back of his left hand to the side of his throbbing temple. He inhaled deeply the smell of fish and rotting flesh. When he opened his mouth, he gulped in the full force of Louisiana’s swamp.

July was hot from sunup to sundown. It was the kind of heat not even homemade ice cold lemonade or sweet tea could combat. The heat made your body sticky with perspiration and your eyes burn. Tom licked his dry, cracked lips and continued looking around from where he sat. He was concealed in a jungle of cattails and phragmites swaying in a soft wetland breeze.

Tom squinted into the darkness and tried to remember where he’d been and how and why he was sitting in the swamp. Tom flexed his right fingers, noticing an unnatural sticky feeling. He looked down certain his eyes were playing tricks on him. Tom lifted his right hand holding it up against the moon's backdrop. He used its silver light to make out the sticky, dry, brown substance clinging to his moist skin.

Despite the earthy and fishy smells of the Bayou, Tom's senses picked out the distinct smell of iron. He looked at his striped button-up shirt and ripped denim jeans, also covered in blood. Though, it appeared his clothes were still wet with it. It could just be he was soddened from sweat, but the blood was cold and wet to the touch.

Not only was there dried blood on his right hand but Tom felt like he’d been clutching something. He raised his hand for a better look. Now, he stared at the marshy ground around him and the curvy shape of a stainless-steel hunting knife.

Tom reached down next to his scraped knee, noticing for the first time the large gashes down the sides of his outer thigh. It could explain why his jeans were torn the way they were. Tom turned the fixed blade this way and that in his large hand studying the pattern the wooden handle made against his palm. He could see the blood smears on his skin, fitting the shape of the smooth, brown handle as he turned it this way and that.

What the hell? Tom muttered and winced at the pain in his jaw. He reached up and touched the right side, feeling the unnatural swollen bulge of his clammy skin. Tom’s mind reeled as he panted from the heat. He flicked the roof of his mouth with his sticky tongue, trying to work his saliva glands.

Suddenly, Tom felt his blood turn cold. A shiver slid up and down his spine as the sounds of a barking alligator grew closer. He got to his feet as a second, then a third gator mingled with the first. Tom looked around frantically then down at his feet sinking into the stinking, thick mud.

This was a death trap, any way you looked at it. Dumped in the middle of the swamp, standing in mud that was sucking him down and lurking gators. They were always hungry.

Panic rose inside him as he listened to the gentle splash of water. Tom felt a ripple of wetness bump his shins, indicating something large was pushing the water towards him. Screaming wouldn’t help unless a poacher or late-night gator trapper was nearby.

Around these parts, there were a select few that braved the swamp at night to catch bullfrogs and snakes. Tom shivered at the thought of snakes. He hated snakes. Another ripple of water pushed against his legs, sending a rush of panic through him.

---

Tom remembered the knife and sliced through the air with it, blowing hot air with every swipe. He couldn’t help wondering if he’d wrestled a gator and that’s where all the blood came from.

The barking grew closer as heavy waves of water smacked his aching legs. It reminded him of the ocean tide rolling in. But these weren’t sandy shores. Tom was positive a romantic moonlit walk hadn’t gotten him to where he was now.

He couldn’t explain any of it. Not the swamp, not his blood covered, ripped clothes and not the knife. Tom jumped at the sound of a hiss and a loud splash. He closed his eyes tight, thinking this was the end of him. He’d lived twenty-five years to become a gators midnight snack.

Buck! Sandra! Tom’s eyes fluttered open. Those were people. He wasn’t alone! His insides cheered. He was saved!

Buck! He heard more people calling out. He wasn’t named Buck, and he didn’t know who Sandra was.

Help! Tom called.

---

Someone’s out here! Over here! Tom heard several men shout and saw white light cast from flashlights bouncing up and down. He hadn’t realized how foggy it was until he tried to make out the white lights that struggled against the thick haze.

Over here! Tom raised his arms and waved them, forgetting in his excitement, he still clutched the blood covered knife. He heard pounding feet, cracking limbs, and the rustle of tall reeds. Tom turned, relief spreading across his face as three men the size of Paul Bunyan emerged.

Look out! One shouted just as their counterpart in the center, the larger of the three, raised his double-barreled shotgun and sneered, I’ve got you now, you bastard.

Chapter One

"W ait!" Tom threw his hands up then fell face forward in time to hear what could only be described as a ferocious growl. He turned his head and watched the biggest gator he’d ever seen in his life catapult itself from the black water into the air.

His long claws were outstretched on his greenish, gray scaly stubs. Tom’s head pounded and ears rang after the gun fired. He lost count of how many more shots followed that.

Pauvre ti bete was almost gator food. The shaggy man to the right snorted while the man to his left reached out a weathered, tan hand to Tom. Another stepped up and helped him to his feet.

This ain’t no place to be veiller. The one who’d said he was a poor little thing almost being gator food chuckled. Tom hadn’t been to Louisiana since he was a kid, nor had he been around much Cajun, but he understood well enough what they were saying now.

---

Trust me, I wasn’t out here being all friendly like with anyone. I woke up like this in the marsh. He gestured to himself, getting an eyebrow raise from the trio. They looked at him then one another just as the sound of more voices and pounding feet could be heard.

Did you find Buck and Sandra? A woman with stringy, dishwater blonde hair leaned forward on birdlike legs and panted.

Nah but we found this fellow here seeming a might bit suspicious. The burly Cajun in the middle pointed a long, fat finger at Tom. The woman looked him up and down, her gray-eyed gaze paused on the knife he still clutched.

Better call the Sheriff, Ruth. I think we got ourselves a killer. The burley Cajun instructed.

Let’s head up to the hill where I can get service Ray. You might wanna bring our new friend here along. Don’t want him getting et up before we find out what he’s done with Buck and Sandra. Ruth’s long, thin neck reminded Tom of an Ostridge. It was fitting considering how thin her body was. Though, her hips flared twice the size of her body, which was unusual.

---

What’s your name boy? Ray nudged Tom’s sore ribs sending a sharp pain through them that constricted his breathing.

Tom. He choked out and tried to suck in a breath, but the air was thick and the pain in his ribs made it nearly impossible to fill his lungs.

What’s your business in the Bayou, Tom? Ray asked.

Can’t say for sure. I’m a nobody. Just Tom.

You’re wrong about that boy, you mighta come here as a nobody, but you’re definitely a somebody now. Ray put his giant hand over the back of Tom’s neck and steered him through the thick reeds and brush.

I think those crime shows call them suspects. Ruth remarked.

Persons of interest, Ruthy. Tom is what the Sheriff is gonna call a person of interest. We’re real interested in knowing what he knows about Buck and Sandra. Ray’s stale, hot breath blew against Tom’s face, nauseating him. He hadn’t come there to be a somebody. Tom couldn’t remember why he was in Louisiana. The only thing he could remember was his name, but anything before an hour ago, was as murky as swamp water.

Chapter Two

Devil’s Point, Louisiana was a small, backwoods, Cajun town known for its hospitality, hot summers, gator tours, cold beer, and legendary creole recipes.

Tom sat in an uncomfortable, worn, leather chair in the Sheriff’s office. He listened to the lopsided ceiling fan clicking on high, oblivious it was no match for the intense August Bayou heat.

In this moment, he would describe the natives of Devil’s Point he’d met so far as anything but hospitable. He secretly waited for banjos to play as three burley men and one malnourished woman led him from the swamp.

As they trekked up steep, muddy hills and over fallen, hollowed-out logs, Tom began contemplating taking his chances with the gators rather than becoming a meal for what he was certain were cannibals. The sound of heavy papers thudding against the Sheriff’s wooden desk gave Tom a start.

He looked up and shifted uncomfortably in the chair. It creaked with his every move. He was an average, five foot eleven, athletic guy who took pride in his appearance. The jumpsuit a short, mousy-haired deputy named Molly issued him wouldn’t have been his first choice. Though, Tom was thankful he was out of the blood-soaked clothes.

Thomas Wyatt Yields, born June 10, 1995 in Puckett, Alabama. The beady-eyed sheriff, with a puffy face that reminded him of a bullfrog, glanced up from the stack of paperwork.

Yes sir. Tom acknowledged the information.

Born to Theodor and Sharla Yields ?

My parents, yes sir.

Mmm. The rotund, big bellied sheriff leaned back in his squeaky metal chair. It protested against his weight. He rocked several times, steepling his short, fat fingers in front of his mouth. He’d shaved that morning. Tom could see the fresh nicks at his jaw and chunky neck.

The names, Gaudet. Sheriff Joseph Gaudet. I run this town and look after the folks that live here.

Okay. Tom was unsure how this applied to him.

---

Son, I got two missing people on my hands and you’ve got blood all over yours. Not only were you brought in with blood on your hands, in your hair, on your face, and damn near every inch of your exposed skin but your clothes. You had enough blood soaked into you it could accommodate two adults. Tom arched a brown eyebrow. He wrinkled his forehead and frowned.

That’s according to the coroner who has been doing this job a long time. Sheriff Gaudet punished the chair mercilessly as he rocked back and forth.

I’m not sure what you’re talking about. Tom contested the allegations he was responsible for two adults either being missing or dead.

You’re not sure what I’m talking about? Son, do you or don’t you remember being hauled in here by the Theriot’s all covered in blood?

Theriot? Is that who those men were?

Ray is the oldest of the three boys. Then there’s Marvin. He’s roughly the same size as his twin, Ray. The youngest of the boys is Billy. That was their sister Ruth who came in with them. Tom nodded his head as he listened.

---

Well, I owe my life to Ray. He saved me just as a gator came up out of the water.

I heard all about it. Ray finally caught Diable Noir. The fat sheriff smirked.

The Black Devil? Tom chuckled and leaned back against the uncomfortable chair. The worn wooden backing dug into his spine.

Yup, that gator has been causing Ray hell since I was a boy. The sheriff laughed.

Well, I guess I’m glad I could be of some help to him.

Probably the only reason he saved you, boy. Consider yourself lucky. The Theriot’s don’t like strangers. Just like the rest of us aren’t keen on newcomers settling here. We like our small town. The tourists keep our little slice of heaven thriving.

Then just think of me as a tourist.

That’d be nice and all, Thomas,

Tom.

That’d be nice and all Tom, except we know you aren’t a tourist.

---

Well, how do you know that? Five minutes ago, you had to run a background just to find out who I am. I’m a tourist. I’m not a native of Devil’s Point.

You might not be a native of Devil’s Point, but your Aunt Betty is. The memories were coming back to Tom now. A flood of them drowned him in reality. He had come here for his Aunt Betty. The night before unfolded like the opening credits to a movie.

Your expression tells me you’re remembering something, son. Sheriff Gaudet bounced and squeaked the chair.

Perhaps. Tom shrugged off the implication he might know about the missing people, which is where the good sheriff was going with this.

I know you came down here to help your Aunt Betty keep the bar. You aren’t a tourist. Your family has roots and history here. I also know from what I’ve been told, you fit the description of the young-man who had an altercation with Buck Eschete.

Why would I have an altercation with Buck whoever? Tom waved his hand dismissively.

---

I was hoping you could tell me.

Well, since I’m not sure what altercation or who Buck even is, I’m afraid I won’t be much help. Tom was normally a terrible liar, but since his recollection was still a little on the foggy side, perhaps this was believable.

Onlookers said in their statements that everything was normal at Betty’s. Normal crowd, normal noise level, normal drinking, and so on and so forth. All this came to a dramatic standstill when Buck Eschete entered the premises around eight o’clock.

Okay. Tom frowned, trying to remember Buck coming into the bar. He vaguely remembered a man about six foot four, over three hundred pounds, with slick jet-black hair that curled at his nape.

Buck’s arms were the size of tree limbs, his legs like a two-hundred-year-old tree trunk in girth. Tom remembered Buck yanking a red beanie off his head and the sound his heavy, black boots made on the hardwood floors.

Any of this jogging your memory, son?

Vaguely.

---

Onlookers stated that Buck pounded his fists angrily on the bar top and insisted to your Aunt, who was working the bar that night, that her time was running out. Tom shook his head, not remembering that part. He wondered if right before that happened is when his aunt sent him down for more alcohol.

I know at some point she sent me down to the cellar. I must have missed that part. I nebulously remember a big man wearing a red beanie.

That would be Buck’s signature red beanie. It doesn’t matter, rain, shine, cold weather or sweltering, the man lives in that red beanie.

Okay well, then I guess that was Buck that came into Betty’s. But again, she sent me down to the cellar for alcohol. It was a busy night.

How long you been here for?

I got here yesterday morning. Betty’s kept in touch with my mom, her sister.

You don’t talk to your mom?

I talk to my mom, yes. What does that have to do with anything?

---

If you and Betty talked to your mom, then you’d know Betty’s been having issues with her bar for a little over a year now.

I didn’t say what my mom and I discussed. I hadn’t seen my Aunt Betty since I was a kid. I spent a few summers down here while my parents vacationed. Not that that is relevant.

Might be. Dunno. Sheriff Gaudet shrugged his fat shoulders, squishing his pale, fleshy neck.

Betty only confided in my mom two weeks ago she was having issues with the bar, to my knowledge.

Two weeks and you’re just now getting here? Gaudet scoffed and stared at him through black, puffy rimmed eyes.

I have a business, Sheriff. I had to tie up my loose ends and finish out some cases I was working on. I couldn’t just up and leave.

Cases? You’re a cop? Gaudet dropped his heavy arms down on the desk with a thud. The big bellied sheriff flipped furiously through the paperwork. Tom smirked, then rolled his blue eyes.

I’m not a cop. I’m a detective.

So, you’re a cop? What division? Where? Gaudet spread the papers out in front of him like a deck of cards.

I’m a P.I. in Fulton Alabama. I’m single, no kids.

So, you’re a rent a cop? Gaudet laughed maniacally.

I didn’t say I was mall security, Sheriff. I said I’m a detective. I own my firm and I’m damn good at what I do.

You kill everyone who opposes you? Gaudet challenged.

Honestly, Sheriff, I prefer guns to knives and only when the situation calls for it. I’m not a violent person. My ex-wife is the one with the wicked temper. Not me. When I filed for divorce, I had to get a restraining order against her.

Sad story. Gaudet rubbed at his eyes, then yawned.

What is it you want from me Sheriff?

Answers. I want to know what happened to Buck and Sandra.

---

Then get up off your pompous ass and do some real investigative work. I had no reason to do anything with them. I don’t even know these people.

Except of everyone here, you and your Aunt Betty have every reason.

Why? Why would we have motive to do anything with this Buck and Sally?

Sandra and because Buck and his wife were coming for Betty’s.

Coming for it?

Geeze kid, no one told you her bar is about to be in foreclosure? Buck and Sandra have been working with the bank to secure the location before it goes up for auction. Tom sat back like the air had been knocked out of him.

Guessing you didn’t know. Gaudet frowned.

I didn’t know.

But that still doesn’t negate the fact that I have two missing people. You were found in the swamp covered in enough blood it could compensate for two adults. You were holding a bloody knife.

---

For all you know, the DNA on me isn’t human. A gator could have attacked me. It’s a swamp Sheriff. Not but a few hours ago, I had one coming right for me.

What the hell were you doing out in the swamp anyway?

I wish I knew, Sheriff, but I don’t.

Boy, people don’t just go wandering into the swamp willingly. Not on foot. Not to stay the night.

Sheriff, until a few minutes ago, I was doing good to remember my name. I didn’t remember why I was even here until you started talking about my Aunt Betty. I have a half memory of Burt in the red Beanie.

Buck, Tom. His name is, or was, Buck. Gaudet sighed impatiently.

Sally or Susan or whoever. I don’t remember even meeting a woman with him. I don’t remember leaving Betty’s. I don’t know how I got to the swamp. I don’t know why I was covered in blood. I woke up like that. My ribs hurt, my legs are cut up and gashed open. My clothes are ripped and my jaw hurts like hell.

---

It sounds to me like you and Buck took things outside like several witnesses remember. Buck grabbed you and pulled you across the bar when you told him he should leave. Tom frowned. He had snippets of an altercation but couldn’t piece the fragments together.

Sheriff, until you can prove I did something, I’m walking out of here. Now, if I need to call a lawyer, I will.

Only guilty people talk about getting their lawyer when they’re put on the spot. Gaudet smirked. Tom stood and pressed his fingers into the side of the desk and gazed hard at the overweight Sheriff. He was a baker’s dozen of donuts away from a fatal heart attack.

When someone is in a small town where they’re not wanted and the Sheriff is acting like they’ve got something on them, that’s when they call their lawyers. I’m the odd man out here and you’ll pin anything on me you can. I’ve seen this before.

You personally?

Yeah Sheriff, a case I worked.

How’d that work out for the suspect? Gaudet tipped his double chin up in a challenge.

For the sheriff you make about four of, it went badly. I suspect if you try to pin me for this,

Consider yourself warned, Tom. I’ve got your bloody clothes and a knife. I’ve got four witnesses that say they found you holding the weapon.

And that means jack shit Sheriff. You’ve got nothing else to go on. Tom backed up.

What you mean is, I have nothing to go on Tom. As in, I don’t have a body or bodies. But I’ve still got two missing people and they were last seen with you.

They were last seen, according to you and your witness reports, at Betty’s. There was more than just me there.

But you’re the only one, aside from Betty, who has a reason to off them.

Not if the bank plans on foreclosing on the bar and putting it up for auction.

No one but Buck and Sandra could afford what the bank was asking. You and your Aunt Betty have means, motive, and opportunity.

Then prove we did something Sheriff or leave us the hell alone. Tom yanked the glass door open and stepped out.

I’ve got my eye on you, Tom.

Make it both eyes, Sheriff. Tom